


eclipse

by sugandt



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: But also, Crimson Flower Route, Crimson Flower Spoilers, Description Heavy, Dialogue Heavy, F/F, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route Spoilers, Kissing, Late Night Conversations, Mutual Pining, Post-Black Eagles Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-12 19:37:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21481723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugandt/pseuds/sugandt
Summary: “What are you thinking about?”“You,” Byleth says, and regrets. If she could pluck the word from the air and stuff it right back down her unfaithful throat, she would.“You smell nice,” Byleth clarifies.
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 13
Kudos: 341





	eclipse

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for CF/Black Eagles route ahead. Also an overuse of adverbs because I cannot be stopped.

Edelgard does not often find time to wander within the monastery walls, after inciting a nationwide war. There's always something that must be done, another supply order to write and have Hubert sign off on, another battalion to hire or replenish, another auxiliary battle to deploy for. More often than not, she finds herself falling asleep at her — Seteth’s— desk, fully clothed with her hair still wrapped around the husks of her headpiece.

This is how Byleth finds her, in the middle of the night. the moon replaced the sun hours ago, and only the nighttime guards were milling about. But it was Hubert who told Byleth of Edelgard’s sleeping place. Byleth’s heels echo in the chamber when she enters. She remembers it being full of life; Lady Rhea awaiting her audience, Seteth and Flayn having a hushed conversation in his office. Byleth pushes them out of her thoughts— no use dwelling on the past, no matter how recent it feels to her. 

“Your majesty,” she says quietly, hoping to gently coax Edelgard awake.

Edelgard does not flinch. Having never been in the office for too long, Byleth takes quick note of her surroundings. It’s not hard to understand why one could fall asleep easily inside. No sunlight comes through the stained glass, and the candles cast only a flickering, yellow-orange glow across the desk. She watches a drop of wax run down the candle, down the candleholder, and drop onto the desk where it ultimately hardens.

Skin bathed in the light of the small open flames, the look on Edelgard’s face makes Byleth almost loathe to wake her— for once, she’s not pushing herself. How could Byleth disturb such a serene expression? What right does she have to wake the empress from her slumber, however necessary? She steps closer, reaches out to Edelgard’s soft cheek— then rests her hand on her shoulder. Not in fear that Edelgard would bare her teeth at her fingers, but in fear that she would like the feeling of Edelgard’s skin under her own too much.

“Edelgard,” Byleth tries again, squeezing her shoulder lightly.

Edelgard’s eyelashes flutter, once, twice, before opening to reveal her lavender irises. She blinks languidly and squeezes her eyes shut again, attempting to bury her face in the crook of her arm. She groans.

Byleth, if she had a heartbeat, would feel it pound rapidly in her chest and it would beg to be released from the confines of her ribs. Her breathing becomes shallow, and her hand feels like it’s glued to Edelgard’s shoulder.

“El,” Byleth forces the syllable out, tongue dry, “It’s late.”

“Hm?” Edelgard makes a noncommittal sound. She would not admit it to her face, but Byleth is struck by just how cute Edelgard can be. Even on the battlefield, in the standard class ensembles that can still be found at the academy, the crimson coloured dress that ended mid-thigh, how cute!

“You‘d best return to your quarters,” Byleth stitches together the words Hubert had said to her earlier, “Shall I take you there?”

“My teacher,” Edelgard drawls, revealing her face from her folded elbow. Her cheeks are puffy with sleep and her lips are glistening— could the mighty Empress truly drool in her sleep?

“Yes,” says Byleth, her hand threatening to cup Edelgard’s chin in her fingers, how easily she could lean down and plant a gentle kiss on Edelgard’s lips, “I’m here.”

Edelgard smiles, sleepily. she then pushes herself from the desk, gets to her feet, and adjusts the left husk in her hair. She wobbles in her shoes a moment, and Byleth instinctively moves to steady her. She’s warm, where Byleth’s hand meets her waist. She feels like she betrayed herself, or she’s about to overstep a boundary. As if she’s reached the point of no return.

“My teacher,” Edelgard repeats, turning her head to face Byleth, “How long have I slept for?”

“I'm unsure,” Byleth says honestly, “Hubert only just told me to come to retrieve you.”

“Hubert!” Edelgard exclaims at the mention of her retainer’s name, and a panicked expression paints her features, “I didn't finish the supply order! Oh, and he needed it today!”

She stumbles back into her seat, rifling around with stacks upon stacks of paperwork until she finds the order, muttering nonsense to herself.

“Professor, I must thank you for coming to awaken me. There is much I have to do,” sometimes when Edelgard speaks, it’s infuriating. Like she’s biting her tongue, like she’s talking to someone who is not actually there, speaking to her reflection and practicing her words. If only she would not cocoon herself so.

“Are you overdoing it?” Byleth asks bluntly after a moment of silence, eyes cast downwards at the overwhelming piles of paper. Surely, Edelgard is pushing herself too hard these days.

“Not at all— I knew what I was getting into.”

  
Her confidence has always been striking.

“I trust you,” says Byleth, and it’s those three words that set her chest aflame.

She trusts Edelgard like no other. Edelgard knows that in an ideal world, they would not be rallying forces against the Kingdom, and this amount of blood would have to be spilled, and King Dimitri would have to bear his neck and let his crown slip from atop his head. But they do not live in an ideal world. Byleth still does not understand much of the nature of crests— she’s known all she needs to know. And to live in a nation ruled by divine beings? What right do they have to dictate the lives of humans, serve divine justice, by what hand— claw— talon?

Edelgard will bring the change that is required. Of this, Byleth is sure.

“Would you allow me to help?” Byleth suggests. Truthfully, it’s getting harder and harder to sleep as the days go by, and she could do with some company.

Edelgard is quiet for a minute, hand moving quickly upon the papers in front of her. She worries her bottom lip between her teeth, pale pink and swollen. Byleth looks anywhere but her mouth, focus locked on the dark, stained glass window.

“I want to say that is something I cannot ask of you,” Edelgard peers up at her through her eyelashes, then averts her gaze when they make eye contact, “but, truthfully, I would appreciate your assistance.”

“Of course,” Byleth says, maybe too quickly, as she fetches Hubert’s chair and brings it to Edelgard’s desk. She’s a bit of a fool in the face of the Emperor.

Edelgard presents Byleth with a spare pen, an even section of papers, and a small, yet appreciative smile. Exhaustion still radiates from her, as she’s slumped over the desk, careless to appear powerful and composed, and her breathing becomes elongated and heavy. Byleth, with the hair on her bare arm almost touching Edelgard’s overcoat, does her best to so much as write Edelgard’s name without her hand trembling.

Their proximity— or lack thereof— has Byleth thinking that she could shift ever so slightly and close the distance between them. It would be easy. Simple. But... it would complicate their relationship. And Edelgard does not need any more unnecessary complication in her life.

It’s easy to forge Edelgard’s signature. Byleth has done so many times before, it’s practically second nature.

_Edelgard von Hresvelg._ Byleth writes.

She smells like lavender, musky and flowery. The colour of her eyes. Is it the soap she has been using? Or is she spending what little free time she has in the greenhouse? She imagines Edelgard wearing the gardening aprons and tending to the flowers.

_Edelgard von Hresvelg._

“What are you thinking about?”

Edelgard notices Byleth’s slowing pace, taking a break of her own to ask the quiet question.

“You,” Byleth says, and regrets. If she could pluck the word from the air and stuff it right back down her unfaithful throat, she would.

In response, Edelgard’s eyebrows twitch, as if they want to knit into a look of confusion.

“You smell nice,” Byleth clarifies. She flips the piece of paper she finished over. _E.H._, she forges,_ E.H., E.H. Edelgard von Hresvelg_, at the bottom of the page.

“Thank you,” Edelgard breathes, and tries to discreetly sniff her wrists in Byleth’s peripheral.

How Byleth aches to take Edelgard’s wrist in both of her hands, tenderly rest her fingers on the inside of her arm, feel her warmth radiating into her, feel her pulse— would it quicken?— and inhale her scent...

“Uh-huh,” Byleth hums, and turns another page.

“We ought to go soon,” Byleth says after some time has passed, but she thinks she is speaking to fill the silence, not because her words have importance. Crimson-clothed, Edelgard’s arm rests against her own. It must have happened when neither of them were paying attention. Were they ever paying attention?

“Agreed,” Edelgard mutters. She’s not in need of much convincing. Piles are made, pens are stored back in the desk, and Edelgard places the orders for Hubert upon his desk.

“You may want your overcoat,” Byleth suggests. It’s likely it's snowing outside. At the suggestion, Edelgard’s eyes flick up and down at Byleth, like she’s a predator sizing up her prey.

“You need it more than I,” says Edelgard, and Byleth accepts after a moment’s hesitation. She drapes the crimson cloak around her, reaching to the back of Byleth’s neck to free the hair that’s stuck there. Her fingers rest on the back of Byleth’s neck for a second too long. It’s an entirely too intimate gesture to share between a student and her professor. But Edelgard is no longer a student, and Byleth is no longer her professor. She takes her hand back.

Edelgard’s long, lithe fingers make quick work of the clasps on her coat. She’s so close that Byleth can count her eyelashes, can count the long shadows that the flickering candlelight casts upon her face. She expects Edelgard to step back and admire her work with the coat that is small on Byleth, but she stays put, heels growing roots into the floor.

“I’ll put out the candles,” Byleth says, her voice barely above a whisper. She does just that, yearning to take Edelgard’s awaiting hand within her own.

“Thank you,” Edelgard says, “Byleth.”

The unspoken elaboration hangs in the air. For everything. For staying with me tonight. For helping me. For being you. For staying by my side. Byleth smiles.

“You must know,” Edelgard begins, as they make their way out of the audience chamber, down the hallway to the staircase, “I feel... grateful. When you make that expression. When you smile like that, it makes me— proud? No, something else.”

She’s quiet, searching for the right word. As if she will ever find it. When Byleth smiles, it causes a meteor shower in Edelgard’s chest. But how could she possibly turn that into words?

“Would you do me a favour?” Byleth asks at the bottom of the staircase, and, as if she needs any convincing, adds, “It would make me smile.” 

Edelgard waits upon the last step.

“What is it?”

“Could you let your hair down?”

Byleth has memories of Edelgard during their academy days, one memory in particular: the night of the ball after the White Heron cup. Edelgard took the purple ribbons from her hair and wore a striking black gown. Someone had even applied the lightest touch of makeup on her— Dorothea, most likely. Her lips glistened with the faintest tinge of red and her cheeks were glowing as if she had just finished sparring at the training grounds. But what was most striking, was the pin-straight, white hair, parted in the middle and gathered on her right side. Then her left. Then both. She couldn’t decide.

She remembers Edelgard sharing a dance with each of the boys, but mostly Hubert, when she desired an escape. Byleth had thought to herself, at the time, how having been born a woman felt like a curse, for she could not perform a simple waltz with Edelgard.

Edelgard’s expression has changed to look quite embarrassed, cheeks the same colour as they were on that night. It’s difficult to take her hair down, but, “If you insist. But it’s a troublesome contraption. We will have to go to your quarters.”

“Mine?” Byleth’s head tilts questioningly. Edelgard had taken the archbishop’s room as her own when the strike force first took over the monastery, but Byleth has seldom been inside. She remembers, though, noting just how bare it looked, as Edelgard had gotten rid of anything relating to Rhea or the church. Black curtains, a deep crimson bedspread upon a four-post bed frame, and a lonesome writing desk are all that she can recall.

“I’m too acquainted with the walls of my own room,” Edelgard says, avoiding eye contact, “and I— I have nightmares in there.”

“Because it was Rhea’s room,” Byleth means it to be a question, but it comes out as a statement. Edelgard nods, and her hand comes up to twirl one of her snow-white locks around her fingers, lithe. Does she have any idea what she does, demure and timid, to Byleth?

“Very well,” says Byleth, and, in a moment of boldness, holds out her arm for Edelgard to link with, “we shall go to my quarters.”

There, Byleth runs the brush through Edelgard’s white locks, so long they reach the small of her back, now. She hasn’t had the time to take care of the length, Byleth assumes and briefly wonders if Hubert is skilled in the art of hairdressing. It wouldn’t be surprising— he has hidden talents and trades galore. Edelgard looks powerful, yet goddess-like, with her hair like this. Not that Byleth could say such a thing aloud. It would be improper, unbecoming of her, ill-advised in the eyes of her advisor.

“Professor,” Edelgard makes eye contact with Byleth in the looking glass. She seems to glow— her reflection, that is. She doesn’t typically use the title of _professor_. Only when it comes to serious matters, such as requesting that Byleth take a second look at her paper and see that she reconsider the grade, or matters of the heart (significantly less common).

“Yes, your majesty?” Byleth shifts on the stool, addressing her in the same fashion. She runs the brush through her hair again, half-expecting Edelgard to purr at the action.

“What is it you feel for me?” Edelgard bites her cheek, almost drawing blood, “I do not intend to be presumptuous.”

Byleth considers her question.

“You were my favourite student. And the greatest in your class,” she settles on saying, out of fear that she would expose herself and upset Edelgard. But Edelgard gives her a cross frown in the mirror. Clearly, by dodging the question, she had given the wrong answer.

“What do you feel for me _now_?” Edelgard insists, fidgeting on the stool. It’s childlike, even if just for a moment, and a smile pulls on Byleth’s lips.

“Reverence,” Byleth sets the comb down on her desk, “and I feel assured when you are near.”

_Devotion_.

“Hmm.”

_Infatuation_.

“Do you want to kiss me?” Edelgard asks, like she’s asking Byleth’s opinion on the weather today— tumultuous storm clouds hanging in the sky by a thread.

How many times has she thought of kissing Edelgard?

“Yes,” Byleth says.

How many times has she thought of taking Edelgard to bed?

Edelgard cranes her neck back, to look Byleth in her real eyes, not the false, refracted version. The physical version, the tangible version, the real and true Byleth, with wide eyes, sea-foam in colour and utterly electric.

Too many times to count.

“Kiss me.”

Her voice is not commanding. It hasn’t been all night.

And Byleth’s metaphorical shackles come off. The lock disintegrates in her fingers.

Byleth cups Edelgard’s chin in one hand, and the back of her head in the other. The angle is awkward, but not impossible to work with.

She kisses Edelgard like she’s going to break, like she’s the only breath of air in a corrupted world, like she’s the last woman she’ll ever have the pleasure of kissing.

Edelgard feels like an orchestra crescendoing to a forte. She feels like a rhubarb and strawberry pie, fresh out of the oven. She feels like the sunset meeting the sunrise for the first time.

“Byleth,” Edelgard mumbles against Byleth’s plush lips, catching her bottom lip between her own and then giving it an experimental suck. At the action, Byleth’s arms slide around Edelgard’s middle, but it is Edelgard who pulls Byleth unto her lap, and it is Edelgard, whose fingernails dig into Byleth’s exposed shoulders when she feels Byleth’s tongue slip into her mouth. Involuntarily, her lips part even further, as Byleth seems to reach in and pull a small sound out of Edelgard, a mix between a shocked gasp and— daresay— a sound of pleasure.

Byleth bows her head, breaking the kiss. Her head moves lover, and lower still, until she has to drop to her knees on the floor and rest her head upon Edelgard’s thighs. Without a second thought, Edelgard’s gloved hand runs though Byleth’s hair, working out the small knots that have come to be.

“Thank you,” says Edelgard. She wants to kiss her again. And again. And again. Until her lips are numb and swollen and bruised. And then, perhaps, more, during which she asks Byleth to assist her with removing her gown, so heavy and constricting. Byleth will snake around so her front is against Edelgard’s back, and her hands will roam the expanse of her torso, and she’ll kiss the back of her neck with feather-light lips, before she slowly, slowly, unzips Edelgard’s dress. It will fall to the ground and pool around her feet, and Edelgard will remove her small clothes then, and Byleth will cup the swell of her breast and Edelgard will turn her head to recapture her lips and—

How embarrassing, to let her thoughts wander into such intimate places. After a chaste, innocent kiss, too.

“My empress,” says Byleth, catching Edelgard’s hand within her own, and pressing Edelgard’s knuckles, the inside of her palm, her wrist, against her lips, “My El.”

“Yes,” Edelgard laces her fingers through Byleth’s, runs her thumb over the back of her hand.

“My teacher.”

**Author's Note:**

> I love these two, and I love them together. Sometimes I feel like their relationship would be a constant push and pull because of Edelgard's position of power, so I tried to depict that in my writing. Hope you liked it :~)


End file.
